Escape
by Heartly
Summary: A socially dangerous asylum escapee recounts - till his death - his days of joy, sorrow and loss.
1. introduction

Escape

Day fourteen since my escape, all the while it is getting colder, crisper, the air itself starts to feel clearer the higher up into the mountains I go. Yet I cannot say that I feel cleaner, its been two weeks since I last showered and its not only me that's noticing. On my last visit into town the people were giving me a three foot radius and all I wanted was some bread that wasn't stale and some cheese that didn't smell like my feet. It's not usually hard to come by such trivial things but most stores close their doors to me. You may be wondering how I even manage to afford simple necessities such as these and how it is possible that I record my daily events for you who are yet to find my body in the coming years when I am dead and gone. Fidgety fingers and a knack for finesse do come in handy for one in my position.

It's been two weeks since last I showered but I still dream of hot water and lovely latherable soap. The last shower I did have was in the asylum and it was a bittersweet one at that. You see, we are only allowed ten minute showers in two minute intervals, how it is that it works I am not quite sure, but the chief of staff seemed to think it did so I couldn't really dispute it now could I? If I remember correctly his name was Grimier, yes, Archibald Grimier, a small portly man with round metal spectacles who sweated a lot. He often carried a folded linen hanky with him which he would often whip out to wipe the sweat from his brow, then with stubby little fingers, he would fold it back up and place it once again in the breast pocket of his fine navy blue pinstriped suit which he wore every day.

There were of course others in the asylum, not only myself. It was a large Victorian house that sat upon an even larger hill surrounded by woodland and wood life, very idealic save for the inside where the criminally insane, mentally unstable and socially dangerous were housed. Most of the time it was quiet: one could move from the arts and crafts activities to outdoor walks and back again without being disturbed, sometimes there were sport days in which we could pick almost any sport of our choosing and play it from daybreak to dusk. But there were also the "bad days" as the staff liked to call them, days in which the entire house went crazy: the hardened criminals would pick on the unstable who would whine to the socially dangerous and we in turn would lead the rebellions right up to the head of staff. Our little rebellions caused no more than a ruckus in the scheme of things for that day and most of the staff were sympathetic to our plight, only scolding us before sending us back downstairs for some hot tea and biscuits.

Our little rebellions, try as we might, never did make it all the way to chief of staff's office. Try as we might, for the moment Grimier was untouchable, a visit to his office the ultimate punishment for those who disobeyed the house rules to the extreme. Rule breakers such as I.


	2. day 15

It was spring, near to the summer of 2036 and I had been for the past year taking care of my charming little neighbour Lela. Lela's mother Chelsea (also my neighbour at the time) was a lovely single mother my wife and I had known for a few years who kept a nine to six job at law firm near my mine. Everyday for the past year I picked little Lela up from school at three o'clock and brought her back to the house my wife and I had bought over three years ago. Everyday we would divulge the daily gossip over a tall glass of lemonade (hers was always taller) and delicious ginger cookies my wife made. We would then begrudgingly move on to the more serious matters such as homework and my review papers always giving each other the best of advice:

"Lela, its four plus eight that equals thirteen, not four plus nine".

"Nooooo. Your wrong, four and eight are twelve and nine and four are thirteen silly"!

"Your right, but I was testing you and you passed. Congratulations".

…

"Why can't I be smarter? It's not fair"!

"Well darling, you're six and I'm thirty-five so the age difference does count".

…

"Can _I_ give _you_ some advice"?

"Of course you can".

"You should use the _purple_ highlighter instead of _yellow_. It would look a lot prettier" she said, and I couldn't help but chuckle because usually the best input I ever got on my review papers were from the petite six-year-old sitting opposite me.

Then at half past six, after supper and our evening telly program of St. Murple Street (our favourite English soap opera) my wife and Chelsea would strut through the door in their perfectly tailored business-women suits, briefcases and all, heat up the remainder of supper and collapse into the dinning room chairs all the while keeping up an endless stream of conversation.

My wife, Maria, and I were expecting a child towards the end of October and I was the constant, unrequiting doting husband. Three months, and I still could not believe it. All my life I had wanted a family, something more than I had as a child, something better and now here I was…a father to-be. I don't think that I was ever happier.

"James? _Darling_, please get me my slippers, I think I left them in the hall. _Please_"?

"Of course".

At the sound of my name I leapt off the sofa and made for the hall in search of the fuzzy sheepskin slippers my wife so adored, and upon returning knelt at her feet and slipped them on as if she were Cinderella. Lela, meanwhile, had also leapt off the sofa and stood on tiptoes, resting her head against Maria's swelling, yet still small, stomach as if listening for the faintest heartbeat of the child within.

"Is it a boy or a girl"? She enquired.

"Well, we don't know yet it's still too early to find out" replied Maria.

"Do either of you have a preference"? asked Chelsea.

"Um…no, no I don't think so. But I would _love_ a little girl, someone to be like me you know, share similar interests" replied Maria with the accent I loved.

Italian and Spanish she was, beautiful, to no one but me. I remember everything about her, the way she smelled, the way she looked, the way she talked…loudly so that everyone would hear her. I thought then if I captured every moment possible with her and preserved it, every moment I could string together…it would last centuries. Centuries of love, not perfect and not easy but still love to a degree. Who could not love her? Her hair came down in thick black curls to her mid-back, her eyes: set deep and close together, were a chocolate brown and her skin was smooth and silky. When we danced barefoot, she came to my shoulder and cold wrap her arms around my waist and she would often squeeze tightly to let me know she was still there, not perfect and not easy, but still there.


End file.
